So I stopped writing in this because I thought Google was shutting down Blogger. A whole lot has happened since then: My father died. I got a new cat. I bought an apartment: 2 bedroom, in Philadelphia. Stephen Sondheim died. The trache they gave me in Dublin destroyed my vocal cords, and the bashing paralyzed half my diaphragm. So I can longer sing with any of the quality I halfway managed before; it's non-existent. I've stopped finding pleasure in eating or drinking alcohol so I just don't, for the most part. This began a while ago, when The Quakers feared I might not shop properly and discouraged me from shopping, so they took it over, and my so my desire to cook is disabled too; even though my stove is electric, also carried over from earlier concerns is a fear in others that I might burn myself, or make a mess I can't clean up; I'm not allowed to cook, or rather, strongly...
a blog that is also meant to serve as a recovery journal, for this gay, Quaker, writer dealing with t.b.i., from surviving a hate crime in Sligo, Ireland, on 1.31.99.